Chicago, Capital Province

It was a good feeling to be setting foot in the Holy City once again.

Chicago was always a busy city, but today the streets swelled with pilgrims, many coming directly from the northern lands. Armen Karlssun had last been in Chicago 5 years ago. As his boat approached the docks of the Old City, memories flooded into the mind of the old man. When last he was here, he spent his time within the palace of the Caliph himself, named not Armen but Khalid, watching over the valuables of Caliph Mikhail al-Hakim, keeping guard of his children and family. However, today he would enter those halls again, not as a soldier but as a bearer of tribute.

The City was alive, more than ever. Fireworks bathed the skies in color in celebration of the Sweet Eid that fell on this day, as the people partook in feasting and felicity. Armen trekked through the streets, past familiar sights to the gates of the Bayt al-Mal. Clearing himself with the guards, Armen entered shuffling past others, both Muslims and resident non-muslims, gathered to pay their dues of Zakat and Jizya respectively. Armen had come on behalf of the Norsemen, to deliver the collective taxes of the Norsemen.

“As-Salaamu ‘Alaykum”, Armen spoke out, meeting eyes with the teller. A young woman, clearly a fresh graduate of the school forced a smile, though she looked more intrigued by the clarity of the Norseman’s arabic. No accent, only perfect Koranic Arabic escaped from his mouth.

“Wa ‘Alaykum As-Salaam”, she replied softly, averting her eyes from the elder man. “May I have your name?”

“Armen Karlssun, of the Northern Provincial Treasury. the I am here to deliver the taxes from the Northern Provinces”

After confirmation of his position, the teller lead Armen into the back of the central treasury to deposit the gold he was transporting.

Each year it seemed like the amount that was deposited became less and less, even more after the appearance of the Khans close by in the plains of Kafiristan beyond the great river of Misisifiy. Armen sighed as he thought over this.

“Wallah, may we persevere, and crush the armies of the khan of kuffar.”

Armen lamented that he was too old to fight once again. And though it had earned him a better life for his family and children, as nobility in the lands of his ancestors. He prayed that the new generation would lead the caliphate and Islam to greatness.

Shamsu’l-Gharb, Shami Province

“Brother, are you sure that you wish to embark on this”

Yahya ibn Betros was known for many things. Principally his piety, but his wisdom and caution were not among those things.

On this day, Yahya was to travel to the west, past the great river, into the lands of Kafiristan to preach to the people of the Geiselne.

The tribes of Kafiristan had a reputation among the people of the Caliphate as violent and savage, even more so after the war with the Khanate. Few in Sham had ever seen a Weiskin or Chwarkin in person, knowing only of them from stories of veterans who fought in the last war.

“Indeed! It will be a great deed to go and spread the word of the Prophet to the people of the wastelands” Yahya was a young man, 24 years old, graduating only a few months ago from the madrassa. His best friend, Muhammad had dreaded the day his friend was to venture out in the wild lands. An ex recruit into the military, he worried about this man, as soft and coddled as he was, going into wild lands.

It seemed that there was no way that he could stop Yahya from traveling west, and so, he would have to go with him. As unpleasant as it would be, his friend needed all the help he could going outside of the civilized lands.

At the edge of a ruinous landscape where the El Grande begins to draw its early mark across the dry rocky landscape of the high desert. Where the wind had not blown in great clouds of dust from the north, across the great prairie lands in the far north and into Texas and Mexico, the cracked and barely readable scars of roads cut the landscape in regular plots where the ruins of adobe homes and buildings lay as mere shells of themselves, simple four walls around a floor of dust and desert sage brush with pale silver leaves. But while the landscape looked dead, closer towards the center of the city where the Rio Grande rolled wide and shallow there was life. When the wind gusts south into the barren inhospitable dry deserts it often carried with it the cackle of chickens, of old madres, and all the rattle of city and town life.

Across the Rio, where six-hundred years ago would have been El Paso Texas was yet another extension for what would be the domain of Juarez as a city. From atop its tallest still-standing towers at the city heart fluttered twin pairs of flags, the long white banner with red-stripe at its bottom, emblazoned with a black desert eagle flying over a black trumpet of the great Tabernacle State, and below in a smaller standard the coiled rattlesnake about the meat of a flowering cactus flush with fruit on a yellow field.

Here was the kingdom of Chihuahua, of a people hard and unbending to the rocks who since before their founding been tested by war and trials. It was a history of strife that spanned beyond generational count and the sun-baked concrete of a tall broken wall that once defined a border not far outside of the city stood as a dark monument that defined the suspicions that rose to there having been fighting and battles when the old world ended, and which had emboldened many people.

And this was the place where, when the men of Deseret came to liberate gave them still more power, and to not turn itself on its own had marched westward to the terrible Bay of Cortes with its sea monsters and dark water. It was said among them that they would have desired to conquer the sea, but Baja across the way had already done so and thus became their jealousy, but not their enemy.

While the march was slow and consolidating it did not take the better part of six-hundred years, not even a hundred. Within a generation they had pierced the desert and slashed to the far waters with the roar of shot and cannon. And when it was done there was such fear in the dons and príncipes that claimed in part Greater Mexico that they had sought to restrain the Chihuahuans. They were wars against the Tabernacle state, and the Chihuahuans came to carry the war themselves on their shoulders and backs. To the north, they were the iron shield against the south.

And so was the kingdom that Josiah Brown inherited, commanded. But more importantly to him: lead.
______________

A remarkable sound split the early morning air, as if called from the very frozen dew that covered every rock and stone in a diamond sheen that shone purple and black in the early morning sunlight. The sun itself had not yet risen and its light was barely an orange smudge over the horizon. The sky was still black and inky.

In the collection of Adobe barracks at the foot of the rocky hill men bound to their feet, and hurriedly donned uniforms. From atop the hill at his nest the trumpeter continued to blaze out his tune over his trumpet heralding the men from their slumber and to their ranks. And so they did, soldiering without distraction to don trousers, don shirts, and don boots. To don their blazers and throw on their hats. To clasp their armor to their chests as they went out the door. Speak and pike in their hand, or musket at their side. Hussling them on more were the drill sergeants who seemed to no less awake than they were when they had retired to their beds five-hours previous. They stood atop boxes, rode atop horses whipping the shoulders and backs of the slow with the broadsides of their swords and sneering in loud voices goaded them on and threatening them with worse than whips at their back if they did not get to formation.

At the parade ground under a covered awning, an officer in fine white dress stood leaning over a table, his wide, round-rimmed hat obscuring his face as he bowed his head to a watch in the candle light. He scribbled in a ledger with a thin piece of charcoal the minutes and seconds as each rank assembled and were filled in.

When that was done, he stood back and away to the corner, keeping his eye low as a drill officer took the stage and began to make a pronouncement in a loud coyote voice. As the regular speech was done, he ordered the brigades to run, and they marched out into the desert with full gear and jogged the desert before the sun could rise. Their breaths combined leaving a foggy wake in their trail that wound and stretched on like a snake that faded away at its tail as its ethereal body melted away into the cold morning air.

By the time they returned from their run the sun had risen from the horizon and the icy diamond dew had all but evaporated from a few still shaded spots. But now they shone like flecks of gold against brown rocks and not as silver diamonds. But when the morning came into full bloom so did these gems melt away and evaporate into the dry air, and the snake that followed the marchers turned from mist to dust. And when the men returned, the officer in the white suit took the times again, looking from his watch to each passing unit taking them down by the passing numbered badges stitched to their arm sleeves or painted on their roughened matted metal breastplates.

When they returned the same sergeant returned, made another announcement and sent them to breakfast. And the white-suited man made no indication he cared, and did not lift his head up any higher than to make a peek at them. And when the men left, he remained; but a chair was brought up to him and there at his table he was served steak and eggs drenched in a blood red chili sauce, with fresh milk mixed with beer in an undecorated ceramic cup.

When the men returned, they were exercised for an hour. Some still jogged, others went about in some other aerobic excercise. The trumpet called them back to formation and they drilled for the better part of the remaining morning until afternoon. Their muskets popping in a rapid succession of volleys at the hillside, the roaring grunts of the others thrusting with spears and pikes rising in an audible beat that filled the quiet between volleys and episodes of reloading.

It was at this time a rider came on a dusty-brown steed. A long riding coat trailing up behind him as the slender built mare galloped up to the camp, slowing to a trot and then a soft canter as the man drew near. The man in the white suit still remained at the drill yard, shaded in the cover of an awning. The rider approached him.

He was a small man, not much more than an inch over five foot with a small jockey's build. His face was narrow, almost grimmacing at each step. And like the man in white he wore a round, wide-brimmed hat shading his face and neck from the punishing sun.

“Josiah Brown, I deliver a message.” he declared in a dusty voice.

The man in white did not answer, and continued his work taking the time.

“Josiah, Brown.” the rider repeated, with a little more force.

“I am not Don Brown.” the man in white said in a low voice, turning to him only briefly as he recorded a time. He had a marbled face, cut with dust rock, and war. Soft green eyes looked up at the intruder, and then left him. His complexion was soft and caramelized.

“I am sorry.” the messenger said, bowing his head, “But I am looking for Josiah Brown.”

“The Don is here.” said the officer in white.

“Then where is he, here?” the rider asked, “I have a message to deliver for him.”

“He is here but not here to be disturbed. You will need to wait until rest.”

“Is this necessary?”

“For him: yes.” the officer in white said, recording some times as a set of volleys finished from the drill yard. In doing so, he displayed a sharp ability of observation and memory. Making sharp glances at his watch and recording numbers and sources even as the successive firing ended long before he finished taking notes.

“I was sent here on a dispatch of emergency from Don Mark of Hermasillo. The situation he says is grave!”

“All situations are grave to master Mark.” the officer in the white suit said, “But it does not change the situation. I can not summon master Josiah at this time. Your waiting will persist.”

The messenger groaned displeased. And threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine then.” he huffed, lowering to sit on his haunches as he watched the drilling continue.

For the next hour he waited as the men rotated and continued. Then a long note was bellowed from the trumpets and everything stopped. The man in the suit put down his charcoal pencil and his watch and folded his arms as the men, now relieved or morning duties began to break formation and scatter, most in the direction of the main camp to the mess hall for lunch.

From the group though came a man walking in the opposite direction, a drill master at his side as they split from the rabble and approached the drill yard's wooden stage. The two stepped up.

The one, who looked to be dressed as a newly initiated junior officer stood tall with broad shoulders who towered over his companion, a small aging man who had lost an eye. With a trimmed beard, the taller and younger man held a neater appearance than the disheveled and scarred older man at his side. “Alright, I am curious. What do the numbers say about today's performance.” the older gentleman said in a gruff voice as he went immediately to the officer in white and scanned the ledger.

“Section 2 has improved from yesterday.” he said in a low voice.

“A marked shot more in five minutes of firing.” the seated man acknowledged.

“I guess that will be fine. I'll need to go over this when Josiah's done with them.”

He stepped from the table as the junior officer moved in. Standing up, the officer in white left him the chair and the junior sat down. The messenger rose.

“Josiah Brown?” he asked, looking between the two new comers.

The man seated turned to him and looked up at the messenger. “And who would you be?” he asked in a wispy, breathless voice.

“Thomas Akron, I have word from Mark Hampton.” he said, stepping forward. Josiah Brown nodded his head.

He was a clean man, even despite the dust and sweat that caked his face. A full beard and mustache was well trimmed, and his eyes were a pure blue under fat-slickened eyebrows. At some point in the day he had coated his cheeks in charcoal dust to cut the glare of the sun, and that was even despite the visor of his cap. A heavy hooked nose dominated his face, and all together he looked at the messenger bitterly as he stepped around the table.

“Well?” Josiah insisted.

“Don Mark wishes to report that several weeks ago, men from Sinoaloa hit as far north as Obregon, and that in this episode of looting close to a quarter of the countryside south of that city was burned. He sent a party of men to pursue them, and last he heard they had entered Sinoaloa state in an effort to recover a herd of cattle these men had confiscated. No word has returned from them since, and to make matters work another party struck north just last week, seemingly in defiance. His authority and means to raise an army to properly retaliate is weak at best, and calls upon you; his governor to do something about it.”

“This is what you get for toying with Papist heathens.” the man in the white suit said, now standing with his arms crossed behind his master.

“Has he at least committed to trying to fortify the region as per my orders?” Josiah Brown said, “It is why I sent him there, to make sure the line between us and them is well defined and to not waste efforts trying to push them away. I didn't ask for a wall, for God's sakes.”

“I don't know.” the messenger said, “I only deliver what word he gives to me.”

Josiah nodded, “I will not go.” he said.

“Let him stew then.” the man-in-white said with a contemptuous snort.

“Not, to not do that, Jesus.” Josiah remarked, “I want word from a man that he at least went about to do what I requested. If he did, then I will not answer. But if he did not, I will have to fire him and deal with the matter myself. This fact is clear to me. You can go and send him that word now, I will deal with the rest on my end here and in my own time. Good bye.”

592 Years after the declaration of the Amureik

The tepee was a symbol of deep meaning to the Oglala.

Though in ancient times most tepees had been unadorned, the tradition of the painted tepee stretched back centuries. Since the resurgence of the Sioux however, it had been tradition to decorate the surface of one’s tepee. Most were decorated with events from its owner’s life. Spiritual dreams, and the origins of one’s family were often quite common. These were far more than simple decorations. It was said among the Sioux tribes, that the spirits of the earth and sky dwelt in these paintings, so they might walk among the Sioux people, guiding and protecting them.

How feeble these spirits must be, for their people to be so easily slaughtered

Seigeisel sat on the back of his barded horse, gazing over the battlefield. Before him was a sea of Chwarkin huts. To either side, the vast green prairie spread as far as the eye could see, though the village was nearly bereft of green. The ground, muddy and trampled from the stampede of thousands of hooves and feet. Fire licked at many of the tepees, threatening to spread and consume the entire encampment. The billowing smoke was so thick overhead the Khan could not make out the sun. Bodies of Chwarkin lay spread across the ground like fallen leaves. Now and then a group of the Khanate’s horsemen could be seen, riding through the camp in search of another Chwar to capture. To his left, a great train of Chwarkin could be seen. Men, women, children. All dressed in the traditional garb of their people. Blood flecked the faces and clothes of many within this slave train, a testament to the melee that had ensued in the camp. Now and then a cart could be seen mingled among the captured Chwar, pulled by whatever slaves were deemed strong enough to endure the burden. To either side, Weiskin could be seen flanking the train, either archers on horseback or lightly armored infantrymen. Seigeisel breathed in deeply. The scent of fire, blood and charred flesh filled his nostrils.
He was called from his thoughts, as though from a distance, by the familiar voice. One of his Chieftains. Efeuger Daggreif, leader of the tribe of the Dawn Griffin.

“My Khan, we have a prisoner for your inspection. The Chwarkin chieftain is dead, but this one should do well.”

The Khan turned, curled black hair drifting with the movement of his head. Chieftain Efeuger sat nearby, seated upon his horse and wearing a fine suit of Weis plate. In his hands was a great lance, its surface decorated with the image of a great crawling vine extending the length of the pole. On foot were two warriors in the chain mail and doublets of the Khanate’s veteran footmen, rich or fortunate enough to furnish their own arms and armor, yet too poor to afford a horse to ride upon. Between them was an aged Chwarkin, fifty perhaps. He wore the traditional bison skin garb of his people, a crucifix made of shrub wood hanging from his neck by dried animal cord. The Khan’s eyes gazed coldly over his captive. The Chwar simply stood stoically in place, hands clasped at his waist while gazing steadily ahead. The Khan continued staring ahead, before speaking.

“Kowtow.”

The Khan extended an arm, finger pointed downwards to his soldiers. He swung his legs to the side and dismounted, ignoring the two men in armor as they pushed the shaman to the ground. Seigeisel walked slowly to where the man was pushing himself onto his hands and knees. Seigeisel bent to one knee, drawing a long knife at his side. The leaf-shaped blade extended to the man’s neck, brushing against the surface of the man’s skin before coming to the man’s crucifix. He cocked his head, the end of the knife lifting the wooden cross.

“What manner of shaman wears a token of Yesus?”

The man’s eyes rose, meeting the Khan’s own bloodshot pupils. He remained on his knees, raising his body so he was sitting on his knees. His face grew serene once more, even as the Khan inspected the crucifix balanced precariously by his knife. “I am Twice-Born Bison. I serve the Oglala of this village as both their shaman and their pastor. I commune with the spirits, and the Almighty, on their behalf.”

“Ah,” The Khan’s eyes suddenly glowed with a newfound light, a sinister smile playing on his lips. “You are a man of letters then?”

“I am, Weiskin.”

“Englische?”

“I am adept in writing in English, and I have knowledge of the script of the Caliphate, murderer.”

The Khan gazed across at the Chwar shaman, nodding his head with satisfaction at the unconquered Sioux. The Khan pressed his hands to either side of his head, long knife still in one hand.

“I have searched long and hard, for one such as you.” The Khan said. Despite his stoic resolve, Twice Born Bison could not help but try to pull himself away. There was something in the Khan’s gaze. A sense of deep joy, at having found Twice Born Bison. A tear slid down the side of the Khan’s face as his grip tightened. “Man of Amur, I tell you now I have a bold plan, that will shape the future of the Amureik. A plan that will engrave my memory in this land for all time. When my plan comes to fruition, I intend for you to record it in your own tongue, so that Chwarkin mothers may frighten their children to sleep at night with stories of what I have done.”

The Khan’s hands fell from Twice-Born Bison’s head, the long blade leaving a red cut along his cheek. He hissed bitterly and raised one hand to the wound. The Khan walked placidly to his horse, turning to the guards with a nod.

“Bring him a horse. He joins my retinue.”

A light smattering of rain fell against the windows, unpreturbed by the change of weather a middle-aged man leaned back in his chair, one legged cross along the knee as he gentle thumbed through a book wresting on the ankle of his foot. Dressed in a black cotton suit and with a thick bushy beard he looked like the subject of a painting in his quiet reading room.

There was a dull rolling of thunder from outside, and the soft gray storm clouds briefly flashed pearl white.

To compare the skyline of the city through the window the man sat before to the skyline of the city centuries ago would only inspire a certain confusion in the observer. Centuries ago the ancient skyscrapers and high rises that dominated the city's center had been torn down bit by bit. Their materials reused elsewhere for safer structures. To also change the image of the city, earthquakes had remodeled the city and many of the larger buildings had collapses or sunk into the clay.

But of all the ruin and reuse, the heart of the city remained. A great care was put into it, and Temple Square was pridefully maintained as it appeared centuries ago. It had in fact expanded over the course of time. Its ancient church, Tabernacle, and assembly hall stood strong, maintained, and continually renovated despite the opportunities for ruin cast against them; their strength God's blessing. The far less ancient libraries and museums and outlaying structures of the old Church themselves remained, no less important than the whole.

“Mr. Monmont, sir?” a voice spoke up from the far-side of the room. Stirring, Monmont looked up at the man.

“You didn't knock.” he said in a airy cracked voice.

“I didn't want to disturb you.” the man at the door said apologetically, “I'm sorry.” He was a short man with a round urbane face. His short black hair combed back along his head.

Monmont brushed him off. “All is forgiven.” he said, shutting the book and putting it on an end table next to him. He looked up at the visitor with murky green eyes and studied him, “So why are you here?” he asked.

“The latest eastern missionary expedition.” the scribe reported, “But all accounts we should have received an update on their location six months ago. But we haven't gotten any work back from their journey into Missouri. But no riders have returned any letters for them yet.

“I realize I have told you this before, and you urged patience. But speaking with others and we believe something must have gone wrong.”

Thomas Monmont's expression didn't sour or liven at the news. He gave the matter some thought, ringing his hand through his black graying beard. “The quest for the Garden of Eden is a difficult one, that is for sure.” he grumbled, his demeanor changing for the dark.

The scribe nodded affirmatively, numbly chewing on his lip. Leaning forward the church's president achingly got to his feet and approached the window, looking out into the rain on the scattered orchards and parks of Salt Lake City. Its walls the indomitable mountain ranges beyond the city's boundaries. It was only around the temple complex a wall had been raised, but it was ancient and small, built for a time of chaos and despair and not of prosperity and progress. Like time itself, it had erased many of the old roads of the old city.

“Enrique Young's second oldest was on that voyage.” the scribe said.

“I know.” the president said with curt flatness.

“He's not going to let this go by unanswered, unlike the other lost missions. He's already been pressing the Church for answers and progress. We can only deflect him so long, he's already suspicious. He's already contacted his stake president to call a council to press the Church. He'll likely press it at the next council. This could get very severe.”

“I realize that.” the president acknowledged, “I don't know about our resources though. Can we devote another expedition so soon to find the last?” he turned to address his scribe. His manner had fully darkened.

Enrique Young wouldn't fully challenge the church, but it would be a challenge to him. If proceedings went ahead, he imagined the quorum Young would call would discuss the possibility of dismissal for him as head of the church.

“I believe so, our funds are still in order, even after organizing this passed expedition.”

“Operating so soon to seek them out though might be too immediate a sign of failure.” Monmont interjected, “It can't be official.”

“Understood...” the scribe faltered and Monmont didn't fill the dead space. In the moment, he had an idea. “I might know some people from Dublán that would be available for Church service.”

“You would?” President Thomas asked, surprised at this revelation.

The scribe nodded, “Not a prominent bunch, but I met the patriarch of the family during a trip through the region one year. They were pretty important before the Browns took over, or so I was told. They're on amiable terms with him, but try and find their own opportunities; I guess. Never the less, I believe we can get the discretion we require from them while we try and delay action by Master Young.”

“If you have confidence in them, then I do too.” Thomas Monmont said, “Broach contact.”

“As you will.”




Drums and water. Thrashing into the foamy gray sea two ships danced across the dark blue mat of the Pacific ocean. From the one oarsmen on the deck of a high sailing shipped thrashed at the ocean's surface with oars as they turned against the wind. The sails had been turned up, and the bow of the ship aimed out to sea as in the distance a much smaller vessel skirted across the waves, its own oars beating the throbbing waters of the Pacific. Towards the east the sight of land was a foggy green pencil line against the backdrop of a perfect clear sapphire blue sky.

Atop the forecastle of the larger ship a towering officer say atop a pony and gazed out over the heads of his officer and helmsmen as petty officers on the main deck bellowed threw their backs into the oars as they barked orders and violent encouragement from bitter salty mouths.

From his vantage atop the out of place horse, the captain of the ship watched as the ship not further than a quarter mile away jetted across the surf. Dark skinned men of the sea frantically evading the colossal galley that was frantically seeking to cut them off. The hurried thunder of a war drum echoed from the smaller ship, and the white captain could see the dark figure of the caramel skined man at the large red drum at the center of his boat.

To compare the two ships would not seem to invoke any sort of threat posed from the smaller one now leading the Mormons out to sea. For starters, at nearly a deck and a half or two decks above water the galley Santo Tijuana was by far the more imposing war vessel than the small vessel it pursued. But yet under the chaotic rolled rigging and sharply angled masts that cluttered the ships interior were the fruits of plunder taken from inland, dragged aboard, and now setting out to sea. Being a large glorified canoe large enough for its crew to move and patrol short-distances across it main hull and across rope hammocks to the smaller outriggers to the side where men with bows and pilfered fire-arms sat on their haunches watching the pursuing Mormons with anticipation.

The entire sea-pirate's ship had such a low profile it could hide itself in the near horizon. Painted in soft colors it had lost the darkness of aged wood. It was far from being a cheaply cobbled together drift-wood craft of primitives, but had become designed for a purpose. It could move without fear of toppling, and with clouds over the distant ocean there was a fear that they were heading them into a maelstrom the comparatively narrow galley couldn't survive.

But the captain on his horse was not perturbed and he held a steely gaze on the brigands even as they seemed to gain distance on them.

“Abuse those seas you bastards of men!” the captain bellowed out to the men on deck below, shifting in the saddle of his horse. The mount did not seem to mind he shifting of the sea below its hooves as the craft rocked over a wave, “Row by God, row like the breath of Satan himself his gnawing at your heels.”

His own sour banter did not seem to have any effect as they continued their case, angled to cut the pirates off before they could enter open sea. But as they held their course they changed theirs. Atop the masthead a man robed in the bright patterned colors of flowers and nothing else jeered and taunted the man with the corpse of an albatross. “Haole! Haole! Haole!” he taunted discouragingly from his high roost over his crew.

“Cursed vulture! Theft of virtue! I will hand you!” the captain called back. The captain was a tall man and even taller on his horse. There was no confusion between he and the colorful captain aboard the other that they were both the captains of their respective ships. What more was the Mormon captain's bright blue hat.

“Haole! Haole! Haole!” the sea cretin howled back hysterically. The other's vessel was beginning to veer off its original course and was traveling near parallel to each other.

“Come you abortions, you can throw your backs harder into it. Raise your guns and fire off the starboard side. Let thunder weaken them!” the captain sneered in the rage of Ahab.

The deck rolled in commotion as men at the oars scrambled for fire-arms and took aim to fire. At the moment their flints dropped to meet the pan of their muskets a great wave rolled under the galley and threw the deck. The horse knickered annoyed as it stepped awkwardly to maintain its balance and with a thunderous rumble from the deck the marines fired a single volley which was thrown upwards. The musket balls landed in the water far behind the pirate's raft as plumes of water splashed up like a school of flying fish had lit from that spot.

The other captain cackled, “Haole can't aim for shit!” he crooned.

Before it could begin the chase had ceased. As the storm clouds over the open sea grew so did the wind and the serene Pacific started to roll. Undaunted by the change in the water, the raiders continued on their way into the open sea seemingly unperturbed by the weather and darkening skies ahead of them. The taunting from it continued to the tune and tone of its drums, but it was much the same.

“Sir, we must turn back.” advised the captain's lieutenant. A portly man with a well tanned face, “The wind is picking up.”

“And before the battle could be fought, we are forced to abdicate from it.” grimaced the captain. His sharp angular face was coiled in disgust. The nostrils of his large rounded nose flared in anger. “Very well, take us back to Tijuana. I'm done here.” he growled, turning his sea horse around to face land. But as he turned to look back to home he cast a last long to his adversaries who were now a bright silhouette of color against a darkened sea. His blue eyes narrowed and he cursed.

The brigands from the sea had been raiding the western coasts since he was but a small boy. That was over thirty years ago. And he promised himself that one day he would be to them as Zachery Taylor had been to the Mexicans. But not by land, by sea. So far, his career had shown naught to that. But in swore again and again in the future he would find out where they were sailing from.